


The One with the Dog

by Syrum



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley your crush is showing, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Except it is because I wrote it, Gen, How Do I Tag, Humor, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), The Antichrist had been on Earth for fifteen hours, Various film references, and one angel and one demon had been drinking solidly for three of them, not really shippy, too much wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: “Do you suppose,”  Aziraphale began, wearing the expression which meant he was thinking really very hard about something.  “Do you suppose dogs go to heaven?”“What?”“Dogs.”  He confirmed.  “When they die, where do they go?”





	The One with the Dog

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies in advance to anyone by the name of Julie who, as any direct or indirect result of this story, happens to end up having a conversation with one (1) Aziraphale, former Principality of the Eastern Gate, in regards to whether or not you happen to know Batman.

“Do you suppose,” Aziraphale began, wearing the expression which meant he was thinking really very hard about something. “Do you suppose dogs go to heaven?”

“What?”

“Dogs.” He confirmed. “When they die, where do they go?”

“Not really my department.” Crowley admitted, pausing to consider for a moment before asking, “Why’s it matter, anyway?”

“Well, I mean, they spend all that time being man’s best friend and all that. Seems a bit unfair if that’s, well, it.” Aziraphale looked a bit put out, which might have had at least something to do with the half-empty state of his long-stemmed wine glass, so Crowley reached across to top it up again. “Ten years of loyal servitude and, oops, time’s up, off you pop then.”

“Fifteen.” Crowley corrected without missing a beat.

“What?”

“Fifteen years, dogs.”

“No, no.” Aziraphale huffed, frowning across at his friend. “Mrs Baker from across the street had one and it was ten when it popped its clogs. Massive brute of a thing, slobbered on my best set of brogues.” He sniffed, sparing a moment’s thought for his irreparably stained shoes. Suede, in a fetching cream which had bordered on champagne. “She wailed something awful when it went.” He was offering his glass a pensive look, and seemed to forget that Crowley was still present for a moment.

“Thinking you might nip up there and, what, sssay hello?” Crowley asked, and it was somewhere between mockery and indisputable interest. “Don’t wear the brogues.”

“Well  _ I _ don’t want to see it.” He replied with a sniff. “M’not all that fond of dogs.”

“What? How can you not like dogs?” Crowley looked suitably aghast, sunglasses half way down his nose where they had slipped and he had not bothered to push them back up again. All the better to see Aziraphale, really. “ _ Everyone _ likes dogs. Even  _ demons _ like dogs.” He paused, sipping at his wine. “Well, most of us do. And anyway, if you don’t like dogs, why do you care where they go when they’re done?”

“I’m an  _ angel _ , Crowley.” And, in their present state, that really was enough of an explanation for it. “They have to go  _ somewhere _ , don’t they?” Crowley nodded slowly, starting to think perhaps he might agree. Just a little.

“Saw a film about that, once.”

“What?”

“Yeah, film about dogs. Going to heaven.” The bottle was entirely empty, which Crowley thought wasn’t really on, but maybe they’d had enough for one night. “Dog heaven.”

“You watched a film about heaven?” Apparently Aziraphale didn’t agree, if the fresh bottle of 1974 Côtes du Rhône that appeared in his hand was anything to go by.

“No, don’t be daft.” He clarified, a bit put out. “A film about  _ dogs _ . The heaven part was just, yanno, stuff.  _ Extra _ . Not the point.”

“What  _ is _ the point then?” Aziraphale asked, looking slightly disgruntled as he filled his own glass again before offering the bottle over to Crowley, clearly not trusting himself to pour. Or past the point of wanting to bother. Really, it could be either.

“Well, it’s a film, innit? Got to be at least a  _ bit _ true.”

“You made me watch  _ Alien _ , Crowley! With the, with the  _ that _ . You cannot tell me that was- was  _ true _ .”

“Well, I mean there’s them parasites. In the rainforest, you know the ones, with the-” He made an odd flapping motion with his hands, and it was a minor miracle - quite literally - that he didn’t slosh his drink either down his jacket or over Aziraphale’s floral upholstery. “The things.”

“Rainforest parasites.” Aziraphale looked a little ill, and washed the sensation down with another gulp of wine that was entirely too good to be consumed at such a pace. “Alright, well-” He tried to think of another one, nose wrinkling in concentration. It was really quite adorable, Crowley thought. “Well what about that, that- one of those superhero films.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know, all of them. Pick one!” 

“S’your example, angel. Can’t pick it for you. Wouldn’t be right.” Crowley reasonned, before adding “Your right  _ or _ my right.”

“No, I s’pose not.” Aziraphale conceded with a small and regretful sigh.

“And anyway, when’ve you seen a superhero movie?” He looked a little vexed, nose wrinkling and making his glasses slide further down. Which, Crowley thought, was an entirely justifiable expression to wear, since apparently the angel had been indulging in films - ones he would have liked to watch -  _ without _ him.

“I’ll have you know there’s an abu’d- there’s lots you don’t know about me.” Aziraphale sniffed, trying for a haughty sort of nonchalance and failing really rather splendidly.

“Alright fine, no need to get huffy about it. Pick one, then.”

“The- the bat one, then. The one with the bat.”

“Thatsss an easy one!” Crowley tossed back the last of his wine and slumped in his chair, legs splayed out across the carpeted floor and an easy grin on his face. “Vigilantes, right.”

“Vigilantes.”

“Yeah, those people who think the police aren’t up to the job, go out and punch criminals in the face. For  _ fun _ . Just, ‘ _ know what sounds like a good idea’, ‘no, what’s that, Julie?’ ‘Punching some bad guys in the face’ _ , like that.”

“Julie?”

“Typical vigilante name, is Julie.”

“Doesn’t sound very fun to me.” Aziraphale couldn’t imagine anything worse, in fact. He hadn’t actually  _ punched _ anyone in the whole of his existence - if one didn’t count the impassioned open-palmed slap which had coloured the left cheek of one Mr Doyle back in 1884. The details of that particular night in Portsmouth remained hazy, and were not likely to be revisited any time soon.

“Well, it’s not. But you’re not Julie, so it wouldn’t be, would it?”

“Oh, of course.” Aziraphale thought on that for the moment, and decided that he rather wanted to agree. It made sense, after all. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Right, ssso dogs having a heaven makes, well- makes sense, doesn’t it?” Had that been what they had been speaking about? He had quite forgotten.

“Yes, I suppose it does, my dear.” And somehow, at that moment in time, it did.


End file.
